A Plaster of Paris

I could never have imagined that Mr Whybrow would take me so far, just to prove a point.

When we disembarked from the train, my immediate impression was that Paris smelt funny. Not malodorous as such, just different. Mr Whybrow gave me a chuckle and told me that all major cities had their own distinctive “aura.”  Thus reassured, I settled to bask in my second impression, which was one of gaiety, elevated hedonism, and overall confidence. I liked  Paris!

I could see that Mr Whybrow was of the same mind. Paris sported that same hint of jocular eccentricity which he himself cultivated as a way of life. I forgot any worries about an object lesson awaiting me; he was hoping I’d enjoy the experience. So, I relaxed and tried to photograph my environment in my mind, down to every last detail. This was something I knew I’d never want to forget.

What immediately stood out was a cathedral at the end of the street, which Mr Whybrow introduced to me as Notre Dame. Mr Whybrow was nobody’s idea of a churchgoer, but he loved its architecture as much as he did the music, and under his tutelage, I had come to respect the labours of men trying to capture the uncapturable in monumental works that took a hundred years to build, but lasted for a thousand.

I’d never been inside a cathedral before, the nearest having been the workhouse chapel before I – ah, rearranged the roof with my top C. Meekly but eagerly, I followed Mr Whybrow as he struck off towards the great doors and led me inside.

It was like stepping into a stone kaleidoscope. The stained glass hung about me, as one of Mr Whybrow’s most spectacular tiaras stretched into something immense. The bullet arches drew the eye naturally upwards, towards heaven; I could not look at the ceiling for long without becoming dizzy.

Mr Whybrow seemed afraid to break the spell as he leaned over to whisper.  “If you think this is spectacular, come and see it all from up here.”

“Up where?”  I was about to ask, but he was already heading for a spiral staircase. Following him up, it seemed to go on forever and I was gasping by the time we reached a gallery that overlooked the entire cathedral. And he was right about the view. It was like being inside a kaleidoscope that had been stopped for my pleasure. I felt that I could almost reach out and caress the stonework, mediculously positioned by mediaeval craftsmen at risk of their own lives.

Mr Whybrow explained, “It was the French who mastered stained glass, long ago; they sent glaziers to the big Saxon monasteries in the north of England, but they kept the secrets amongst themselves. When they died, their secrets died with them.”

We returned to the nave. Only a few souls were about, but the echo of their steps fluttered about us from wall to wall and from the roof, like furtive bats.

“What are all these little nooks and crannies around the walls?”  I dared ask.

“Some are tombs, some private chapels, some – more functional. Any cathedral that hosts an archbishop is inevitably going to be a community in itself.”

I took in the effigies to the church’s luminaries, dead for generations. From time to time, Mr Whybrow stopped and studied a stone figure, as though it meant something to him, but he otherwise let me wander about in a big arc until we had reached the doors, which he held open for me.

“Are you looking for anyone in particular, sir?” I asked, suspecting that he was about to introduce me to a famous musician.

“Archbishop Darboys,”  he mused. “The one the Communards shot.”

I’d heard of the Communards, but knew little about what they’d actually done. “What for, sir?”

“Being the Archbishop of Paris,”  came the blunt answer. “It was just before you were born; they rounded up all the clergy and – well, the lucky ones were shot. Come on, let’s get some air. There’s more to Paris than a cathedral.”

He obviously did not want to darken our outing by dwelling on a less savoury episode, which I respected. And let’s face it, which most cities have experienced at some point.

Following him outside, we paused at the top of the steps, where I could see what he meant by his last remark. Opposite was a theatre comparable to any in London’s West End, its placard proclaiming the current production to be “1001 nights.”  What was not comparable, was the number of street artists chalking out images as good as any painter could manage. In London, someone would have moved them on or charged them with “a public order offence.”

But of more immediate attention was a gypsy girl dancing before a small crowd. Her tanned body flexed like a stiff but supple rope, agitated by a puppetmaster. I was impressed, if that’s the right word, by the amount of skin she was showing. Any woman so daring in London would find themselves arrested in very short order. But then, Caledon had taught me to be a little more open-minded about such things. Here I was, staring at her bare midriff, and I had not been dragged to hell by a horde of screaming demons. So was London really right, to be so dictatorial in matters that could do no harm?

Mr Whybrow might have been reading my mind; a tight little smile knit the corner of his mouth as he led me away in the direction of a windmill overlooking the street.  “The Moulin Rouge,”  he told me. “Everyone’s heard of it, and now you’ve seen it.”

“I haven’t heard of it, sir,”  I gently protested.

“Ah.”  Chuckle from Jeweller. “It’s famous for its dancing girls. It’s regarded by many as a hub of immorality.”

He said no more, but waited for me to glimpse the placards outside.

“Is that all they do, sir? Dance? But you’ve seen me wearing less than that.”

“Not dancing in public, I haven’t!”  He threw his head back and laughed – curiously, not a head turned to him.

I had to break off to share his laughter, but for a different reason. A dalmatian was relieving itself against a lamp post, and nobody was paying it a bit of attention.

“That’s one custom London and Paris have in common,”  Mr Whybrow agreed. “And now, coffee! Don’t worry, it’s far more humane than my stuff. The French do things with it that you won’t believe, but they don’t look down their noses at you if you prefer it black without sugar, either.”

He had obviously been here before, often enough to know the place well. I found myself ushered into an establishment called “Chez Maxim,”  which threw welcoming arms out to me with its opulent, plush interior. Mr Whybrow indicated a table and settled himself with the familiarity of a regular. A waiter appeared as if by magic, and Mr Whybrow startled me by rattling off, “B’jour. Deux cafes noirs, s’il vous plait.”

While we waited, he explained to me,  “Any lady of substance must at least be able to say that she’s been to Paris, Miss Bluebird. So, here you are. After revolutions, civil wars, multiple switches between monarchy and civil government, we find ourselves in a city where shopgirls rub shoulders with countesses on a far more even footing than you’ll find in London. And whereas Londoners tend to hide their culture away in official galleries, the French take a pride in it and boast about it in public.”

I’d discerned another difference between the two. In London, I’d have been uneasy about being taken anywhere so luxurious. But like Caledon, here I felt as if I belonged.

Mr Whybrow must have noticed my residual unease. He added, “That includes their café culture. In Europe, it’s common to sit outside and watch the world go by, but I thought you’d prefer to sit inside out of habit. Ah, merci.”

The coffee arrived in small cups. It looked every bit as tarry as Mr Whybrow’s own, but an experimental sip proved it to be rich and aromatic. A restorative to be savoured; not just to stimulate the mind, but to mellow it, too. Mr Whybrow let me to enjoy it in my own time, before waving over Garcon  for something he called, “l’addition, s’il vous plait.”

When we exited to the street, I felt fortified against whatever lay ahead, which I suspected to involve a lot of walking. Which was no bad thing.

 “We’ll grab something more substantial later,”  said Mr Whybrow. “You’ll notice that the French take a great deal of pride in indulging their senses, particularly their appetites. Even the smallest, meanest-looking café probably hosts a master chef in its depths, and they’ll take as much trouble over the minutiae of each dish as any of London’s most expensive restaurants.”

So Chez Maxim was merely typical of Paris. Yes, I saw the distinction; in London, most places treated you as though you were putting them to more trouble than you were worth, and those that didn’t, talked down to you as something to be tolerated, rather than indulged. I was getting to like Paris more with every passing moment.

We were heading down a boulevard  of a wideness I had never imagined in a city. London streets were so cramped by comparison. This street converged on a distant arch, that was bigger than it appeared. It only waxed larger slowly as we approached. It seemed central to the whole city; I was about to ask Mr Whybrow its significance when a strident buzzing noise entered my hearing – like an airship engine but faster. It grew louder much more rapidly than any airship – yes, despite the echoes from the tall buildings, it was definitely coming from above.

The sound peaked like a bomb burst and before my eyes, a thing like an airship gondola shot through the arch and soared upwards at the speed of a rocket. In the glimpse that I had, I saw that it was like  an airship gondola, but it had no gasbag. Just a couple of thin platforms on each side. Oh, and the propeller was on the wrong end.

Mr Whybrow did not even break his step as he chuckled, “Show off!  He’ll come a cropper doing that. It’s a heavier-than-air flying machine, Miss Bluebird. A lot more complicated than an airship, but one day they’ll all be made that way.”

His sentence trailed away, hinting at some experience of his own which he did not care to impart at that moment. But Paris had already distracted me with its next, even grander, revelation. Soaring arches of iron girders, stretching skywards to converge at a point almost too far to see.

“The Eiffel Tower,”  explained my guide. “Built for the exposition of 1889. And to answer the obvious question – about a thousand feet, the exact figure escapes me.”

“Will we be going up it, sir?”  I asked, somewhat apprehensive at the prospect of a thousand feet of stairs.

Nod from Mr Whybrow. “Unless you can think of a good reason not to. Don’t worry, they do have lifts. The stairs are usually for emergencies only.”

The lift seemed to take forever as it rose. Through the gratings, I saw Paris getting smaller and smaller; the effect was hypnotic and I gave a little jump when the lift stopped with a slight jerk.

Mr Whybrow led me out onto a balcony. I’d spent much of my time in Caledon learning not to be afraid of heights, and with some success. Here, I felt that I’d have to start all over again.

Standing as we were almost in the clouds, I felt my sense of balance waver. Suddenly, all the stresses of the day caught up with me at once. They combined to form a relentless demon that seized upon my momentary instability, starting with my stomach. Mr Whybrow must have noticed me swaying slightly. Unfortunately, he misinterpreted my dizziness. “Just grab hold of the railing - ”

He was too late. My reflexes were already half way there. I launched myself at the railings and lost everything inside me including, I suspected, half my internal organs.  Mr Whybrow decently stood back and said nothing, but waited for me to finish.

“Are you all right now?”  Mr Whybrow asked.

“Yes, thank you, sir,”  I gasped, blinking tears from my eyes.

“Hold onto the railing and look to the horizon, not straight down,” came his patient, commanding voice. “This is what thousands come to see.”

I followed his advice and savoured the clean air, a thousand feet up. I could only imagine the nerve of the men who had built this thing, bolting all the girders together so far from the ground. I picked out the Moulin Rouge, and that vast Notre Dame might have been a country church, half-swallowed up in the distant haze. I was acclimatising to the dizzying altitude, but there remained that slight unsteadiness in my ankles. I’d heard Paris spoken of as the city of romance; at the present moment I could only think of it as the city of vertigo.

Mr Whybrow was taking it all in, too; he must have seen it before, but the faraway look in his eyes told me that it was an experience he’d never tire of. Apart from my own unscheduled contribution, of course. Sorry, Paris. 

I became aware that he was studying me discreetly. “Are you quite recovered?” he asked, without a dram of condemnation.

“Yes, thank you, sir. It’s strange, I feel reborn - the air seems to stimulate the appetite.”

He saw my hint for what it was. An excuse to get back to the ground again. “Rule number one in Paris; never hurry anything. Except a dish from kitchen to table. Don’t worry, I’m sure we can satisfy you beyond even your imagination.”

But at least he acquiesced, and held the lift door open for me.

On terra firma  once more, I espied a photographer plying his trade and I had to have some tangible souvenir of the day. Mr Whybrow noticed the slight halting in my step, and was ready for my pleading eyes before I could get a word out.

“Why not?”  he said, simply.

When Mr Whybrow paid the photographer, he lingered chatting for a moment. When he returned to me, he explained, “I was just giving him the address to send it to. Are you all right, Miss Bluebird?”

It took his query to point out to me something that I should have seen for myself. I was shifting about from one foot to another, and my back was beginning to ache. The coffee was keeping my mind alert, but my body was about to jack it in. “It’s all right, thank you, sir. I hadn’t expected to be doing so much walking, that’s all.”

He pointed out a little park, where we shared a bench. He said nothing, letting me relax and take the weight off my feet. I began to feel sorry for him, showing me around one of the world’s great cultural capitals with a big plaster on his head – for which I was responsible. In fact, I’d been wanting to say something since we left Caledon, and now seemed to be the time. I couldn’t quite manage to look him in the eye as I apologised for having decked him.

Mr Whybrow waved a hand as though it did not matter. “It’s all right; I could see straight away that you needed a plaster of your own. Something had just happened, hadn’t it?”

His confidence, the stern cast to his gaze, told me he knew who was involved. There was no point in holding back. Calmly and concisely, I told him about Jasper, although I stared ahead with my eyes a-blur. Anything else would have brought forth the tears that had been waiting for their moment, and to allow them to tarnish this day would have been sacrilegious.

Mr Whybrow heard me out impassively. “And do you mind if I ask how far he’d taken things with you?”

“Nowhere at all, sir. I’m simply not interested, and if I were, it wouldn’t be with a lout who smells like a den of weasels. He’d asked me to a dance at which the star turn was a spoon player, and that was it,” I wound up, sounding emotionally spent, although I noticed Mr Whybrow cringe at the mention of the spoon player. I added, “If he’d avoided the personal interest, I suppose we could have got on on a vaguely friendly basis – well, until I caught him and wotsername having a threepenny upright – “  I bit my tongue at my lapse into workhouse-ese.  “He had absolutely no attraction for me, believe me, sir.”

Mr Whybrow nodded sternly, to advise me that he was already convinced and my protest was unnecessary.  I continued in a more subdued tone. “It was the way he took my affection for granted without even troubling to find out if it was there in the first place. And since he’d wasted no time in ducking behind the chapel with that – creature, we can add ‘treating me as if I’m stupid’  to my reasons for hating him. Nobody likes to be treated like that.”

Mr Whybrow turned it all over for a moment. I don’t think he needed convincing of anything. Finally, he said, “You don’t have to justify yourself, Miss Bluebird. I’d always put him down as good-hearted but not a gentleman. Now I see that I was only half right. Well, I said I wouldn’t interfere unless it became unavoidable, but if you need me - you may hold me to that.”

Looking at the ground, I mumbled, “Thank you, sir.”

He turned his head to me, to transfix me sharply. “And I’m grateful to you for confirming what I’d suspected about Little Miss Pirate. A schemer who wanted to use me to improve her lot.”  He gave a dry snort. “I saw through her from the start, but an ounce of confirmation is worth a ton of deduction. Thank you, Miss Bluebird. I think, with that in mind, that you might appreciate the amount of trouble you’ve saved me. And now, if you’ve got your breath back, I think it’s time to turn our attention to recovering your strength. Do you think you could make it to a restaurant that’s in sight of the tower?”

“I could make it to Timbuctoo if there’s something filling at the end of the journey, sir.”

“It isn’t that far,”  he laughed. “Come on.”

He led me to the “The Dansant,” up a flight of stairs to a wide terrace over which a civilised, delicate little orchestra cast its cheer from inside the building. I immediately appreciated why the French were so fond of eating outside; the fresh air kept one’s appetite open for more. He held my chair for me, and when he’d seated himself, remarked, “I suppose it goes without saying that you’re starving?”

“I could eat a cow,”  I replied, not caring at my vernacular in such a well-groomed establishment. I was not joking. If they brought in the whole animal impaled on a spit, I’d leave nothing but bones.

As before, the waiter appeared like a ghost materialising, but Mr Whybrow was ready with his steam-driven French. “S’il vous plait, nous prenons le vichyssoise – chaud pour nous deux, suivi par le Chateaubriand. Et une bouteille du Chateau Lafite quatre-vingt douze.” 

The waiter took it all down with a nod of his head, signifying his approval at Sir’s choice, although he’d probably have reacted identically had Mr Whybrow ordered burned mailbags. Oh, Lord – that was a point. I didn’t even know what he’d ordered; he was probably condemning me to some repulsive foreign stuff that wasn’t even properly dead. Yes, that was his oblique revenge for the belt over the head I’d given him.

But there was worse to come. Mr Whybrow shuffled his chair back and extended a hand to me. “Would you care to dance while we wait?”

My jaw landed in my lap with a painful thud. “But – you hate dancing, sir.”

“So do you, albeit for different reasons. But you’ve earned my trust where others have not, and it’s still worth knowing how to do. And it’s not as if anyone here knows us.”

Uncle Arthur’s advice rang in my head with a sonorous soothing echo.  Trust him.  Uneasily, I stood and took his hand.

“It so happens that they’re playing a waltz,”  he mentioned. “It’s simple enough and popular anywhere; get that right and people will overlook any number of slipups in other steps.”

Knowing as I did his aversion to dancing, I appreciated the effort he’d made in asking me. It would have been churlish to refuse. I forced a smile and asked him to please lead the way, sir.

That he had been experienced on the dance floor at some time was immediately obvious, from the firm but gentle lead his hand gave me, insinuated around my waist. He gave me a mischievous wink as if to say, “There – nothing to it really, is there?” As we settled into the orchestra’s steady three-four swirl, the setting sun bathed us in a gorgeous snuggly russet-gold opiate. Relaxing, I felt bound to offer some attempt at conversation. Not least to mask my lingering disquietude at my unaccustomed situation.

“I’m so glad you brought me here, sir; it’s taught me a lot. I’m more used to people speaking of Paris as a den of iniquity.”

Mr Whybrow chuckled. “Paris is a popular ‘safe’ city amongst revolutionaries who’ve made their own countries too hot to hold them. But as far as morality’s concerned, the only difference between Paris and London is the language. People are pretty much the same, the world over.”

“If you mean that they condemn what isn’t in sympathy with their own narrow minds, I agree, sir. I’m more used to people speaking of Paris like some Biblical underworld, but I’ve also heard it called the City of Romance. And I can see why. This is the first time anyone’s treated me as a woman.”

“Then it’s about time someone did,” Mr Whybrow light-heartedly threw back.

There was no escaping the serious undertone to his remark, which reinforced the slight unease that I’d been feeling since I accepted his invitation to dance. I’d never been intimate with a man, and was not sure how far to go in public. He must have seen my uncertainty as he crooked an eyebrow, leaving me to explain what was bothering me.

Haltingly, I told him, “I know you’d never go beyond the bounds of propriety, and you’ll know what these people will think. But I don’t, so please excuse me if I’m a little bewildered by the experience.” What a mess! But it was the best I could manage with all the conflicting counterpulls of excitement, nerves, and a smidgin of residual flight urge.

Mr Whybrow chuckled back. You silly girl.  “You’re right; I’d never hazard your reputation. But the French are very good at minding their own business. Their word “femme”  means a wife, or any woman. And we know that you’re my shopgirl – “ he stumbled, looking for a way to put what followed.  “ – and a lot more. But the French don’t, and if they did, they simply wouldn’t care.”

I began to feel guilty. Through my own stumbling lack of confidence, I’d overtaxed his own and he was out of his depth. Drawing a deep breath, I told him, “If I were your lady and not just a very lucky shopgirl, I couldn’t wish to be treated better. If they did think I was your lady, I’d be flattered.”

I caught myself. In trying to undo my mess, I’d gone too far.

Mr Whybrow merely looked away, a little embarrassed.”Thank you, Valerie.”

I bit my lip. Not only at his forgiveness for my fox-paw; it was the first time he had addressed me by my first name.

He wrested back my attention with a tweak of his finger on my waist. “Don’t ever doubt yourself, as a woman, or in any capacity. Right now, there’s no prouder man on earth. If I was interested in acquiring a companion, I’d want her to look and generally be like you. And I think our waiter’s coming.”

What impeccable timing that waiter had. As Mr Whybrow led the way back to our table, he was unable to see the flush glowing in my cheeks. It was I who was the proud one.

At first I thought that the dainty on the plate before me was a joke to which everyone else but myself was party. A sausage roll? Carefully following Mr Whybrow’s lead, I selected the outermost of the knives and forks and sliced into something I’d been about to pick up with my fingers. My palate exploded with the first bite. Some sort of shellfish, with a savoury herbal tang, in pastry that didn’t so much melt in my mouth as dissolve.

Eating gave me the excuse not to talk; I’d already dug myself into a deeper hole by trying to clear up the one I’d initially dug. But I was careful to give Mr Whybrow a warm smile of appreciation. And from the wink he returned, that was all the thanks he wanted.

The soup was a light savoury vegetable one; I didn’t recognise what was in it but it left me more hungry. Then the waiter put between us a sizzling cottage loaf which had the texture and scent of roast beef. I giggled. “I thought for a moment we were going to get one each.”

Mr Whybrow smirked. “You did say you could eat a cow. It would appear that the only bits missing from this are the horns. It’s lucky you didn’t say you could eat a horse. Here, they’d have given you one.” I almost choked, but Mr Whybrow quickly added, “Don’t worry. This is the best beef you’ll ever see.”

It certainly was. I knew, through having snaffled the Governor’s leftovers, that even workhouse beef was not always like old boiled boots, but this spread sublimeness as it filtered throughout my head. Those clever French had served it with a yellowy sauce which at first looked out of place, but it worked with the open air to augment my appetite, and I had to be careful not to shovel it all in like an army of dockers. There was no hurry, after all. I realised, all the same, that ladies  did not fork down one steak after another, but Mr Whybrow knew my appetite and indulged me with a smile of satisfaction.

We spoke little while eating; we could read all that was necessary in each others’ faces. Most of London would never have had such a fabulous adventure; most of them didn’t even know where Paris was. Yet here I sat, being shown off in one of the civilised world’s great centres, and all he wanted in return was a smile. Well, not quite. He had the cachet  of a shopgirl who’d been to Paris, and he’d deflected at least some of Miss Creeggan’s wrath.

Mr Whybrow had wisely ordered a water ice to finish with. When I pushed my dish away, clean and empty, I told him, “Thank you, sir. You’ve done to my stomach what your art gallery did to my eyes.”

He smiled back as if to say, “Quite all right – doesn’t matter.”  Then he called the waiter for l’addition.  I pretended not to notice as he was slipped a piece of paper, and I surmised that its sole content was, “an arm and a leg.”  But Mr Whybrow merely handed over a few brightly-coloured banknotes with startlingly big numbers in the corners, and helped me to stand.

“The custom is to finish off with coffee and liqueurs. I suggest we do that in Caledon; the trains and ferries run all night, but you won’t. And neither will I!”

On the way back, he left me to digest the outing in my mind, while my stomach digested the most spectacular dinner I’d ever had.

The train to the coast rocked me, as though I were a dish being prepared by a master chef who knew exactly how to do things. Out of the corner of my eye, the final sunbeams of the day took their bow, graciously drawing down the curtain on what had been a magnificent experience. The last thing I remembered was that I’d have to put off getting my airship silk for another day, and it didn’t matter. I’d left Caledon as a fortunate shopgirl, and would be returning as a lady equal to any other.

Revels and Revelations

The next day, I had to be up early to mend the more tangible memory of the previous day’s disaster. I wasn’t going to stitch my overskirt by hand if I didn’t have to, and I knew that Mr Whybrow’s cellar had what I wanted, as I’d seen it there while building my airship gondola.

I found that I would have to shift a few dusty old crates. I stripped to my underthings to preserve what was left of my outfit, and by the time I had found what I was looking for, I was as grubby as a sweep’s apprentice, but there it was, large as life. Mr Whybrow’s old sewing machine. I knew he’d used it for mending his own airship, so my slightly more modest affair should be within its capabilities. It came as no surprise to see that it bore the brand, “Dreadnought.”

It only then occurred to me that I’d given no thought as to where I was going to get the material. Well, first things first. I stitched up that rip in my overskirts (fortunately all those pleats made it easy to hide) and then set about searching for some silk. Mr Whybrow had some, but only enough for casual repairs. Certainly not enough to build a whole gasbag.  Bother.

I was nothing daunted as I dressed, having first used the fire bucket to wash the worst of the dust from my hands and face. It would only be a minor inconvenience; I knew where I’d seen plenty of silk, and it belonged to someone who’d sooner Customs and Excise didn’t know about it. But I would need the Dreadnought again (I mean the bike, not the sewing machine). And there would be the problem. I could get away with carousing about Caledon in my underwear, but not where I was going. 

I was drying my hands on my skirt when I heard the door open above me. A customer was in the shop.  I made to hasten upstairs, but at the clunk of the office door, relaxed again. Mr Whybrow was already dealing with her. Voices filtered down to me; blurred at first, but then Miss Creeggan’s distinctive imperious booming made me start. She had wasted no time in speaking to Mr Whybrow Really Quite Firmly. I held back to eavesdrop. 

“She might only be a shopgirl, but she’s your shopgirl.”  

Mr Whybrow attempted to put some force behind his protest, but a slight stammer told me that he was already resigned to losing. “I’ve given her more than any other shopgirl in town. Her own house, free access to all my building materials, and she’s acquiring an education that’s second to none, by shopgirl standards.“

I was wondering when to go up. I didn’t want to interrupt, although I should already have been in the shop and the longer I left it, the harder Mr Whybrow would be on me. 

Mr Whybrow continued.  “I’d remind you that it was Miss Bluebird who destroyed the last facility.”  

“Oh, was it?”  The Fashionista harrumphed. Then she called out, “And you might as well come up, Miss Bluebird. I know that you’re there.” 

I went up, embarrassed at having been rumbled. There, as I’d expected, I found Mr Whybrow barely holding his own against a Fashionista whose countenance was every bit as forbidding as an Old Bailey judge when the black cap had been put on his head. Miss Creeggan, of course, was wearing a fantastical gown whose gossamer translucency was like a maelstrom of crystal, to preside over any parts of the room that her personality might have neglected.

The counsel for the prosecution opened up, calling Shopgirl as witness.  "Miss Bluebird, what happened to that ruin Mr Whybrow fobbed you off with?"   

“It blew up, Miss,”  mumbled the witness.

“How?”

“The postman went in there for his pipe and struck a match.”

“And why should that have come to cause such complete destruction?”

I expected Mr Whybrow to step in and protest. “My Lord, the counsel is leading the witness.”  But he maintained an awkward silence. Besides, I knew that I had nothing to fear. Even if I hadn’t been inviting trouble by disinfecting the cubicle with an incendiary bomb, Miss Creeggan would always make sure that the blame was directed at anybody but myself.

“I’d tipped in a little bit of petrol for the purpose of disinfection,”  I pompously announced, enjoying a scowl from Mr Whybrow. “Mr Whybrow was expecting me to use the facility, even though I’d told him that a huge spider had taken residence there.”

“’Huge’, Miss Bluebird? Can you be more specific?”

How I loved it when whatever I said would be taken seriously, with Mr Whybrow squirming. Besides, he could have been more forthcoming with a usable facility, so I wasn’t really sympathetic towards him. “It was as big as my hand, Miss.”  To prove the point, I spread my fingers.

Mr Whybrow was beginning to lose his patience. “You could have swatted it with a rolled up copy of The Times. We keep – used to keep a copy out there.”

“Harry was sitting right above it, sir,”  I returned.

“Harry?”  Miss Creeggan pinned me to the spot with an accusing glare.

“The spider,”  Mr Whybrow tersely clarified.

“The postman regards him as his friend, Miss,”  I said. And before Mr Whybrow could add anything of potential embarrassment to myself, I added, “He’s not what you or I would call a gentleman, but it is a public facility, Miss, so he is entitled to use it.”

Miss Creeggan snorted in dismissal, clearly not happy at the idea of my sharing a planet with the general public. She then switched tack and swept a displaying arm towards me, like a defective product she’d returned. “Mr Whybrow, look at her! She’s a lady as refined as any other. With or without maneating spiders in residence, how could you submit her peach bottom to some dreadful old plank which she has to share with the sweepings of the gutter?”

I was about to say that I was the sweepings of the gutter but forebore. Instead, I put on a suitably pitiful expression, which Mr Whybrow regarded sourly. He had never seen the part of my anatomy in question, but probably suspected that it was made with steamed teak overlaid with White Stuff, like Old Stumpy. “I’d remind you, Miss Creeggan, that she wouldn’t have had to put up with a hastily-constructed facility, had the previous one not been destroyed by her pie.”

“Which you dropped, sir,”  Miss Creeggan completed. Tiring of the evidence, she pronounced sentence, tapping her cane on her palm with the metronomic steadiness of a drummer accompanying an execution party. “Sir, you will provide that girl with something becoming to her station.”

At first, I was about to protest that I wasn’t going to go to the railway station every time I wanted to – but then I realised what she meant. Miss Creeggan was favouring me with a great commanding glare, leaving me a cue to pick up, and with her full support. Emboldened, I replied,  “Yes - I want my own facility with pretty pink flowers on the bowl, and nice soft paper. None of that ghastly newfangled medicated stuff that’s like a creased razorblade.”

I thought I’d let my tongue run away with me. Especially with the bit about the pretty pink flowers. Mr Whybrow opened his mouth to protest the harshness of the sentence, but Miss Creeggan got there first. And she was taking me at my word. She jutted an arm to pronounce sentence, and signed the death warrant with a bolt of Fashionista lightning that was as irrevocable as a thunderbolt.  “I shall expect the deficiency to be remedied forthwith, sir. Or you shall incur my displeasure.”

With that, she gave a haughty Fashionista toss of her head and stormed out, leaving a silence hanging in the air. That final “stick that in your pipe and smoke it”  sort you get when a mausoleum door’s been slammed shut after the coffin of someone you really don’t like has been dumped to rest.

“What were you doing in the cellar anyway?”  Mr Whybrow spat, apparently afraid that Miss Creeggan might overhear.

“Something you can’t do for me,”  I lied, shamelessly. And with some justification. “I’m not using that yard again.”

“You don’t have to. Stay out of the yard, I’m busy there.”

“Then what am I supposed to use, sir?”

“The cellar, until further notice. And don’t worry about any maneating spiders down there.”

“Oh?”  

“The rats have eaten all the spiders.”

I knew there were no rats in the cellar. He was teasing me, and very tactlessly. But before I could deliver a suitable retort, he had already gone and I could only glare at where he had been standing. 

Actually, I had come out of the situation rather well. If Mr Whybrow promised something, he always delivered. Eventually. And now that Miss Creeggan had taken an interest, I should not have long to wait.

I allowed myself a tight smile as I checked the shop diary. There was nothing out of the ordinary for the next couple of days; just routine. But I did notice that Uncle Arthur’s birthday was coming up. It seemed a suitable time to make a little offering at his tomb. He had given me a lot of reassurance when I’d most needed it, after all.

Some would call it cheap, or cheating. But I picked him a couple of roses from Bluebird Park, knowing that he’d understand the gesture’s personal significance and thereby, its sincerity. As I carried the blossoms to the chapel, I remarked on a critter rustling noisily in the hedge. Probably a rabbit; I made a note to have a look. Mr Whybrow would not want them tunnelling under the foundations.

I laid the roses on Uncle Arthur’s tomb, making a cross under his name, and gave him a smile of thanks. He’d been a good friend to me in my new life here. 

My reverie was interrupted by that rabbit again, rustling the hedge. A particularly heavy rabbit, I thought. And then all was revealed by a howl that filtered through the wall. A particular type of howl, that signified either agony, or – 

I dashed outside to find not rabbits, but Jasper doing an impression of one. I’d no personal experience with men in “that”  capacity, but having shared a workhouse with a thousand others, I knew what he was doing. But it was his companion that caught my eye. That pirate woman of recent acquaintance, and this time in a far less spectacular uniform.

Jasper must have heard my approach. He dropped his lady like an unwanted sack; she emitted a startled squeak as she crushed what I hoped was a stinging nettle.  

Grinning sheepishly, Jasper turned to me, clumsily fumbling his trousers up with one hand while concealing his modesty with the other. “’allo, Miss Bluebird – uh, this is a lady wot I met at that dance. Just givin’ ‘er a bit o’ moral support, like, you know what I mean?”

I had never felt more in command of my faculties as I paralysed him with an icy glare. “That sort of moral support is usually termed a ‘knee-trembler.’”  I glared at the pirate woman/maid or whatever she really was. “Not even an Easterman maid – an agency girl.”

Jasper tried to approach me, but his trousers had got twisted and he nearly fell. “Now look, Miss, it ain’t like wot you fink – “

That did it. I hurled every ounce of my being into a kick that intersected where Jasper’s legs did. He folded in two most satisfyingly, unleashing a bellow that cut the air like a fourteen-inch shell passing overhead. 

“We have a letterbox in front of the shop,”  I told him frostily, as soon as he was able to register sounds. “I suggest you use it in future. That way you won’t have to come inside.”  I was about to leave when I remembered his companion, lying entangled in the hedge and looking up at me as defenceless as a rabbit on a butcher’s slab with the cleaver poised over its neck. “I see you found the organ grinder, Miss.”

Turning on my heel, I flounced off, eight stone of corked volcano. My valedictory pun had been genuinely unintentional; it might just raise a smile on my face when I’d cooled down, but I held out no prospect of that for weeks and weeks. Now that I’d seen how capriciously Jasper used women, I wanted to tear, rend and dismember things. It was not that I’d been remotely fond of him, it was rather that I detested being treated as if I was stupid enough to fall for every sickly-sweet line that came my way, like a get-rich-quick scheme hawked from a street corner, with my heart as the stake. 

At the shop door, I paused to gather myself up with a couple of deep breaths. It was a pity that Miss Creeggan had not lingered to see how I’d handled the situation. I think she’d have approved. 

I went in to find Mr Whybrow with a customer, whom I swiftly summed up as a relatively normal-looking lady who’d just gone in knowing what she wanted, and having found it, was just paying prior to leaving. 

“These skeleton ear pendants are perfect,”  she told Mr Whybrow, beaming as she pirouetted, making the delicate silver bones tinkle. “Halloween Gothic with craftsmanship! Oh, I don’t suppose you sell halloween masks to go with them?”

I thought it was time I justified my presence there. “Halloween masks, Miss?”  I looked hopefully from face to face. 

“I’m afraid we don’t do the masks,”  said Mr Whybrow, apologetically. 

“Ah, well, I’ll just settle for the ear pendants, then. Good day, sir.”

I dropped a curtsy as the lady left. Alone with Mr Whybrow, I wanted to tell him what I’d just seen, but I knew that if I started, the volcano would erupt. Instead, I seized on the immediate context as a refuge. “I wonder if we should offer halloween masks, sir? If there’s a demand, perhaps we should get more into the spirit of the occasion?”

“You don’t need a halloween mask,”  Mr Whybrow replied.  He was about to add something, but never got a chance to. He had picked precisely the wrong moment to attack my very femininity. The one thing I could not change. The cork blew out like a cannonball, and the volcano spent itself in a single eruption of St John's Revelation proportions. I picked up the first thing I could reach, which was a ring guage – you know, one of those conical things jewellers use for sizing rings. They’re designed not to flex with changes of temperature and to resist rings being hammered down onto them, so they’re made of solid steel and are very heavy for their size.

I stormed out, my very soul screaming. I know that I’d never be most people’s idea of a lady, but did he have to attack my looks as well? He’d even begun to smile as he was speaking – he was treating the matter as a joke, which made the sting all the sharper.

When I reached my house, the first thing I did was look into a mirror. Was I really so hideous? I’d never thought of my face as countess-grade material, or even an equal to those porcelain-faced figures I’d seen in old portraits, but everything was where it should be, in sensible proportions………..

No. What was said, was said. And Mr Whybrow was not given to making emotional judgments about women; what he said, he meant. Suddenly, the walls around me seemed ephemeral. A peculiar, spiritual feeling, and easily explained.  I did not belong.

It had all been a dream. Despite all my efforts, I was still an outsider in a fantastical land of beauty and craziness that I had come to love. 

I’d probably get fired anyway. He wouldn’t forgive what I’d just done. Not on top of the trouble I’d recently caused over that wretched convenience.

Through swimming eyes, I thought I saw the top of the mirror changing shape. No, it was not my imagination. I already had an idea what it was, but coming on top of all the other trauma, I was too shocked to move. I could only watch as spindly legs rose above the top of the mirror, followed by two lens-like eyes, followed by six more – 

HARRY!

That was it. That was IT. I could stand no more. I flung the mirror onto my bed and fled the house, wishing I could flee from my own skin while I was at it. Forgetting my own immediate peril of dismissal, I took shelter in the shop. There, I found a note lurking in the Lamson tube. I opened it with some dread; I knew what he’d be saying, it was purely a matter of how he did so. 

Well, he was obviously in the workshop if he’d used the Lamson, so however I took it, however I handled my shame, would be known to myself alone. 

The handwriting was a little askew, but that was to be expected from a man who’d been concussed. But it was still elegant as ever, and it still stopped my heart. 

 “What I meant was that I don’t allow my staff to drop their standards for the sake of a silly manufactured custom. Your looks are in no doubt and never were.”

 

As grudging and formal as ever, but that was his style. And nowhere, a mention of my future, which I found hardest to believe, but I knew him that well. If Mr Whybrow had intended to fire me, he’d have done so.

It occurred to me that even at that moment, he would have been awaiting a response from me. Oh, damn him! He’d probably taken himself up to the workshop precisely to let me be alone to consider my reply! 

Tears pricked my eyes as I picked up the pen. You might at least give me the reassurance of telling me so, once in a while  crossed my mind. But it was I who had got hold of the wrong end of the stick and clobbered him over a perfectly innocent remark. Instead, I simply wrote, “Thank you, sir.”  It said it all, and he would have known that.

What I did not expect was his reply, which came back instantly. 

“Please be ready to leave in ten minutes.”

My heart stopped again, but this time with less of a thud. So that was how he’d do it. Soften me up a little so that the axe didn’t hurt so much when it fell. So be it. 

Well, I’d brought nothing with me but the clothes I’d stood up in. Ten minutes was somewhat generous of him, by a factor of nine minutes. I tried to forget that I was returning to my house for the last time, as I returned to my house for the last time and changed back into my workhouse clothes somewhat briskly, to deny myself the chance to brood and generally collapse into tears. In fact, I don’t think I’d have cared if Harry had reappeared and danced a hornpipe in front of me as I divested myself of all the elegant, comfy finery that Mr Whybrow had given me, to replace it with workhouse sackcloth.

I was just straightening up my hair when a knock came at the door. It could have been Jasper or his paramour, I was beyond caring. I must have taken longer to change than I’d thought. When I opened the door, I found Mr Whybrow standing there. He was sporting a plaster, but otherwise he might have been about to ask my help with modelling something. He took in my workhouse garb with puzzlement. 

“I had in mind something brighter, Miss Bluebird,”  he said, nodding to my drab dress.

So he was letting me take a gown back with me to the workhouse. Very generous of him, and it would be useful if the chance came to leave it again, although I did not see that happening. 

He continued, “It’s time I showed you something of the world, although I’d be surprised if you wanted to go anywhere in that workhouse malarkey.”

The truth began to dawn. “I’m not fired?”

For an instant, I was ready to floor him again for teasing me so tactlessly, but I refrained. Maybe I’d just been taking too much for granted. Mr Whybrow put me out of my misery once and for all with a mildly astonished shake of his head.

“Good Lord, no. Why on earth should I do that? I can hardly fire you for misinterpreting something. No, Miss Creeggan thinks I don’t treat you as a lady. So I’m going to show you some of what’s involved, that’s all.”

Again, that enigmatic hanging-in-midair. I suspected that there had to be downsides to being treated as a lady, and he was going to concentrate solely on those. “You make it sound like an ordeal, sir,”  I chanced.

“Oh, it’ll be terrible, I’m sure. But you’ll survive. Now, would you mind getting changed into something more appropriate for one of the world’s great centres of art and couture?”

Ooh, could he just once give me a straight answer? Without giving me a chance to reply, he closed the door between us. Not knowing, of course, made it harder for me to decide on what was “more appropriate.” I was more used to being told what I’d be modelling (“Dress for emeralds/rubies/amethyst etc”) and making my selection accordingly. My mind raced as I ransacked my wardrobe for something becoming to his plans. One of the world’s great centres of – where could he have in mind? And what did women wear at such places? 

The obvious choice just sprang out at me. A day dress by our local Miss Terry Lightfoot, with its own merry little matching bonnet. 

I was equally anxious not to keep him waiting, so when I finally emerged onto the street, it was with a twinge of nervousness.

“Will this do, sir?”

Mr Whybrow cut me a sweeping bow. “Admirably, Miss. A splendid choice. If you’re quite ready? We’ll need to wait a little for the airship.”

Our own airship tower was just around the corner and we did not have long to wait. We took the Sumie K, with me wondering where he had in mind as destination as we sailed over Caledon. But he did not volunteer any information, and I did not ask. It was a delightful reminder to me that I’d not used the public airships since I overcame my fear of flying. I just sat, soaking up the breathtaking views of SouthEnd and Kintyre as we ploughed onwards at the Sumie K’s  leisurely pace.

The trip was short, and I was almost sorry when Mr Whybrow signalled our arrival. We got off, walked to a small dock and just waited. Wherever he had in mind, it was not Caledon.  I sensed no tension from him while we waited; any acrimony had been left behind. But then, he hadn’t shown any, anyway. 

I’d never been on water before, and now began to worry that I’d disgrace myself by being seasick. But the Kitty Heart proved a stable vessel while winding in and out of the channels, and once out to sea, the waves were a rocking sparkling blanket and the air enlivening. 

That left me free to wonder about our ultimate destination. And that, Mr Whybrow obstinately kept to himself.

Cavilling at Cavorite

[Editor’s note: Mr Whybrow asks me to point out that no maneating life-forms were harmed during these particular misadventures. Well, maybe a couple, and they'll get over it.   VB]

I waited until SouthEnd was quiet before making my move. A host of buzzy bees tickled my tummy with excitement as I scurried down to the cellar for a few necessaries. Returning to the stable, I loaded pick axe, club hammer, cold chisel and an old sack into the Dreadnought’s sidecar. I tried to be quiet to avoid attracting Jasper if he was still about, although by that time he should have been on the way to that dance he mentioned. How perfect it would be, if he were to discover his “perfect girl”  at the dance, although I hardly dared imagine the sort of girl who’d put up with his particular brand of charms.

I stood surveying the sidecar for a moment, trying to think if I’d missed anything, but I reckoned my needs to be very straightforward. In a way, I was looking forward to the labour; it brought to mind breaking rocks in the workhouse but this time, for a purpose that was worthwhile, shining with glory and racing visions of fat fluffy clouds and endless skies.

Finally, I threw my skirts into into the sidecar, arranging them so as to hide the tools, and then concealed the lot under an old sack. It was time to set off; I had to accomplish my mission while it was still light enough to see. The Dreadnought, cold, started at the first run and signified its happy obedience by settling down to an even idle when I opened the choke half way. By now, I was quite used to riding about in my underwear, and no longer felt self-conscious as I launched Shopgirl and Dreadnought onto the streets.

I maintained as high a speed as I dared without attracting attention, just in case I should pass Jasper again. Now, there was one who would benefit from Miss Creeggan’s education, although she would probably give up on that one. If Mr Whybrow had paid me the same attention as Jasper, I’d have been more than happy. I knew I could trust him not to use and discard me. But on a personal basis, he seemed warmer towards Miss Creeggan, although we both knew that she’d never accept him in any romantic capacity. And in the meantime, I was being pursued by a well-meaning oaf who smelt like a rubbish tip. Gawd, life held a full deck of cards but just couldn’t shuffle them into usable hands!

I passed nobody on the way; I guessed I’d caught Caledon at dinner. Victoria City and Penzance paid no heed to the crazy skirtless shopgirl on the motor bike, with its sidecar clanking enigmatically, and Morgaine passed in the blink of an eye.

At Wellsian, I crested the great rise at the Bashful Peacock, and slowed down. Two big green crystals came into view, lurking at the trackside, and my tummy started to tickle all by itself. I was nearing my goal.

I believe I’ve already mentioned that Wellsian was rich in Cavorite, that fabulous mineral which has the property of defying gravity. I don’t believe I’ve mentioned that at the top of the hill from the Bashful Peacock, the railway line divided. So far, I’d only continued straight on, to cross the bridge overlooking the Firth. But the turnoff, which I’d never used before, continued to the Cavorite mines. And that was where I was going. It stood to reason that the veins of cavorite would be richest at the mine, and I didn’t want to be seen hacking off lumps by the public thoroughfare.

The line was convoluted, and in places narrowed to the width of the railway line, but I had foreseen this. The Golden Grisset would have been much more comfortable, but I had reckoned on being unable to manhandle that great carriage around the line here.

The line came to an end, overlooked by a hollowed-out crag like a great bad tooth. Perched atop was a small office, which had to be the winding house. The whole overlooked an L-shaped inlet whose shape was too regular to be natural; it looked like the result of thousands of cavorite extractions over the years. Spanning the far side was that bridge which I usually crossed – or would have to fly over very carefully, once my airship was operational.

I peered down the shaft. No Cavorite was visible, which meant that either the mine was worked out, or which was more likely – to judge by the freshly-greased winding machinery – that it was far underground. Too far for me to slog back and forth to the Dreadnought, at any rate.

Luckily, a crystal remained sticking out of the ground, near to where I was standing. I only needed enough for a small airship, I wasn’t trying to levitate a castle, so that crystal should hold more than enough for my needs. Better still, it was far enough from the public thoroughfare not to be missed.

Retrieving my tools, I stood staring at the glowing excrescence. I did not even know how much I’d need; that would be a matter of trial and error, which I was not looking forward to.  Mr Whybrow had said that he refused to use the stuff, which must have been for a good reason. But thinking back to how I’d seen it used in Caledon, I should not need a greater volume than the airship gondola could contain. But it would need to be balanced, or I’d be nose- or tail-heavy.

Nervously hefting my pick-axe, I realised that I’d never worked with this type of substance before, or spoken with anyone who had. Would it break cleanly like slate, shatter like glass, or would it resist obstinately like workhouse granite, shedding powder until a usable bit fell off? Or would I need a steam drill?

Hopefully not. But there would be no harm in starting small. Exchanging the pick for the club hammer, I took an experimental swing at an edge of the crystal. A solid chunk flew off - like resin, but denser – and flew straight up, to be lost to sight.

Well, the stuff’s eager, I’ll give it that. But beyond that, you’ve learned nothing.

Actually, I had. Take your eyes off it for an instant, and it’ll get away. But I had come prepared. Clambering up the crystal, I spread my sack over it and whacked at it through the heavy jute. Instantly, the sack came alive and tried to float upwards, but I put my foot on it and managed to hold it down. Congratulating myself, I took the sack back to the sidecar, put it down and………….

………… up it went.  Bother.

I wondered how far up Cavorite would fly. Balancing its anti-mass against the mass it was carrying would be a finely-judged thing; it would call for a lot of experimentation in the cellar until I could get the amount right. Assuming that I could get it back to the cellar in the first place.

This was not going to be as straightforward as I’d hoped. But I was not to be daunted. I still had my skirts in the sidecar. I tied my heavy outer skirt at the waist and taking it back to the Cavorite crystal, put a few heavy rocks in it. I tried to hack off small nuggets, and found that anything much larger than my fist would lift me clean off the ground. Inevitably, I had to let those go.

But little by little, and with care, I managed to cut off enough to achieve equilibrium with my skirt and the mass of rocks inside it. This, I lugged back to the bike. It felt odd; the rocks had lost none of their sideways inertia and bumped against my legs, but the bundle was easy to lift. Back at the Dreadnought, I dumped the bundle in the sidecar and tied it to the frame.

All right. Bike and shopgirl together would weigh about a quarter of a ton. Let’s assume the gondola would weigh about the same as the denser bike on its own. I’d need enough Cavorite to lift the gondola and myself, so – half as much again, at a guess. If it didn’t lift off, I could always come back for more.

My petticoats were made of thinner material, so once weighted with stones, I had to make repeated trips to the crystal to take back a couple of smallish lumps each time, taking care to carry no more than would prevent my walking normally before transferring them to my heavier skirt.

I was wondering when to stop harvesting and head home, when I noticed the back wheel starting to lift. Very well, then. That would have to be it and if necessary, I could return for more. And in that event, at least I would know what not  to do.

Gratefully flinging my tools back into the sidecar, I reached into my skirt and wrestled out the rocks I’d been using as ballast. I would not be needing those now. It felt strange, seeing them fall to the ground with a meaty thud, after losing all that Cavorite into the atmosphere.

I must have ungallantly overestimated my own weight. As I removed one particularly large rock, the bike gave a wobble and I dropped the stone. Whereupon, the Dreadnought began to rise into the air, with me straddling it. In a moment of panic, I considered leaping off while there was still time, but I hesitated. I did not want to have to explain to Mr Whybrow that his Dreadnought was floating in outer space, or wherever Cavorite eventually found itself. By then it was already too late and we were above the winding house, and still rising.

Now I wished I had brought the Golden Grisset instead, although the sheer impossibility of manoevring it to the mine meant I’d have to have left it blocking the railway line. I spent a few moments cursing my stupidity in workhouse language as I took stock of my situation. Obviously, I was carrying too little ballast, or too much Cavorite. I’d have to jettison some of the latter. But not much. The amount needed to lift bike and shopgirl must have been only slightly less than what I was carrying, or I’d have shot up like a rocket.

Gingerly, I felt around inside my ballooning skirt, hoping that the thing didn’t rip, or my fate would be sealed anyway. Cavorite shooting up, and shopgirl plummetting down. My fingers located a small lump of the smooth green stuff, although I needed the assistance of my other arm to force it down!  I wrestled it out from my hem, and let it go. The cavorite took off, grateful for its release, and I –

I looked down. I might have slowed my ascent a little, but not by much. It was difficult to tell; there was next to no wind in my face, and the ground was still receding. There must have been a slight air current; I was drifting southwards towards Middlesea. I reached inside my skirt again, and threw out a little bit more. There – there could be no doubt about it. When that chunk took off heavenwards, I remarked on a definite nudge between the saddle and my bottom, which lessened abruptly before pressing too insistently on me. There could be no doubt about it; I’d slowed my ascent but was still going up.

How I wished for some reference point to assess my altitude. The Dreadnought was swinging round slightly, which made it difficult to judge whether the ground was approaching or receding. Already, Wellsian was an engineer’s model beneath me, with the Firth a flat sheet of water punctuated by islands.

Something fluttered in the corner of my eye, and it was too thick to be an eyelash. And the wrong colour. And eyelashes didn’t flap about like that.

Forgetting my immediate problem, I squinted hard at it. Whatever it was, there was a second one a little distance from the first one, and the first one was getting nearer. What in the name of – I remembered where I’d seen that before, and it was on a fishmonger’s slab in Holborn, labelled as “Squid.” That’s right, I remember wondering who on earth would eat anything that looked so hideous. But it was not  as big as this one! It was hard to judge the size of something with only sky behind it, but it looked to be half as big as a street, and it was a fairly safe bet that anything with tentacles that size ate shopgirls.

I considered solving the whole problem once and for all by jumping and trusting to my impact with the water, but reined in my panic. Whatever that thing was, it did not appear to have noticed me, or at least if it had, it was still wondering what on earth I was. For that, I can’t say I blame it. Shopgirls might be appetising enough, but it wouldn’t get me without swallowing the Dreadnought too.

The flying squid was apparently prepared to chance having to spit the bike out. It turned towards me, the two domed eyes fixing on me like the Golden Grisset’s headlamps, with me as a rabbit, paralysed in the road. In that instant, they both flashed towards me, having decided that I was either worth fighting over, or worth sharing, which was worse.

The revulsion at being torn in two like a squishy Christmas cracker gave my mind that nudge it needed. As they’d kept telling me in the workhouse, if all else fails – pray. So I did, in the way that came most naturally. Hoping that somewhere in that vast sky was a God who watched over shopgirls, I let out the first thing that came into my head. Mozart’s “Alleluia”  - the very same thing that had got me banned from singing in the workhouse chapel.  The words weren’t hard to remember; it was in fact just the same one, repeated over and over again.

What did make the piece stand out, was the high C at the end, which many singers strive for, but not all achieve.

“A – lle – LUUUUUU – ia!”

In my case, I don’t know what I did to that top C, but the flying squid didn’t like it. They backed off sharply, flapping the two longest tentacles about to protect whatever they had in the way of ears.

I couldn’t believe my good fortune! Of course, silly shopgirl! I had a unique natural defence of my own, had I but remembered it!

The flying squid hovered, apparently making their minds up what to do about the accoustic menace they had been about to seize. I couldn’t hold that high C forever, but as long as my adversaries were indecisive, I still had a hand to play. Darting a hand into my skirt, I fumbled about for a third chunk of Cavorite which I hoped would be about the right size as I threw it out – neither too big nor too small. This time, the saddle unstuck from my bottom and stayed unstuck. I had to grip the handlebars and hook my feet under the pedals. We were going down and whatever those flying squid things were, they were not following me. Perhaps they could only see ahead and above; I’d have to ask someone. In the meantime, I had just learned another reason why Mr Whybrow recommended flying close to the ground. It would have been nice if he’d warned me!

Perversely, part of my mind saw my situation as a purely abstract equation. 

Cavorite Lift < (Dreadnought + Shopgirl + Ballast). 

If Gondola ~ (Dreadnought + Shopgirl + Ballast) then Cavorite Lift > (Shopgirl + Dreadnought).

Some unbidden reflex started me shivering. It wasn’t the cold; it wasn’t really cold even up high. It was my body telling me that its nerves had had enough, even if the rest of me was intact. 

It’s all right now, I reassured myself. You’re going down. That’s what matters.

Yes, that was the main problem solved, along with that of the flying squids, which I had definitely not asked for. But now I had another. I had no control over my direction, and was still drifting southwards. There was every chance I would come down in the sea. I might survive, if I kept my head and remembered Mr Whybrow’s instruction on how to move in water, but eventually I’d have to face him, bedragggled, skirtless and half-drowned, and he’d be just as angry to learn that his Dreadnought was at the bottom of the Firth. Assuming that I wasn’t down there with it.

Oddly, the altitude itself held no fear for me now. I was more worried about running out of it. With no way of telling how high I was, I could plot a line along which I would probably land, but I’d have no idea at which point along it that would be. The pier at Caledon on Sea intersected my course, which added a few per cent to my chances of landing on terra firma. It was just my luck that out of four directions in which I could have been drifting, three of them would have deposited me on dry land, and I had to be heading in the fourth. 

Oh, Lord, yes. I’d just vanish from the world, and Mr Whybrow would assume I’d absconded. He’d see the Dreadnought missing, but would be puzzled as I’d taken nothing. He’d suspect an assignation with someone, and that hurt more than any other possibility. Him spending the rest of his life believing I’d run off with someone when all I’d wanted was to settle down as his shopgirl, making the most of the opportunities he’d given me. 

A sudden crushing feeling grasped hold of me. The things I would miss, while feeding the fishes. And Miss Creeggan – and Mr Whybrow himself - 

I shook my head to throw the melancholia out of my ears. Gradually, by comparing landmarks such as the chapel spire and the roof of the Blue Mermaid, I calculated that I would hit the water over a hundred metres before the ground actually started. I might survive a dousing, but the Dreadnought certainly wouldn’t. I would survive death by falling, death by flying squid, death by drowning, only to succumb to death by Jeweller. If only I had some way to control this thing! I dared not try to eke out my forward motion by throwing out more ballast; I only had so much spare to play with. I considered tossing out the tools, but that would only by a few seconds of time.

I thought again. If the slight breeze found the Dreadnought and myself solid enough to act upon by blowing us southwards, then what I needed was to increase my surface area. And I’d left my petticoats in the sidecar!

The Dreadnought was a solid reassurance between my legs as I darted my hand into the sidecar. I ripped my petticoat open into a single sheet, knotted two corners around the handlebars, and gripping the bike between my knees, held up the other corners as a sail, with myself as mast. 

The ploy appeared to be working. Hitherto, the breeze had not been noticeable, as I’d been travelling at its own same speed. But my improvised sail filled and bellied out, and the ground definitely started moving towards me horizontally, and not just in the direction of gravity.

I began to tingle with a new optimism. My forward momentum was reducing my downward speed, and at this rate, it looked like I had plenty of leeway. I could even be reasonably certain of landing on flattish ground, avoiding any buildings which might make life difficult. 

Oh, splendid! The pier sailed by like a log in a fast-moving river. If my guess was right, I should come down in Miss Rain’s garden.

Oh, bother. 

I squinted into the distance. Yes, I could be in no doubt. I was heading straight for her man-eating plant. I’d got away from it once before, but my nerves were too frayed to be certain of achieving a Dirty Look on this occasion. Then I remembered the sailing barges on the Thames. I wasn’t familiar with the terminology, but they helped steer the barges by swivelling the sails. 

As the lower corners were tied down, I managed less of a swivel than an awkward twist. However, it worked immediately, and had me heading straight for the Blue Mermaid, or if I missed that, an inlet of unknown depth just beyond it. There was no time to think about it; I reversed my twist of the sail and the kindly breeze wafted me the other way, right into Miss Rain’s garden and safely out of reach of her shopgirl-eating plant.  

Yes, this was going to be as graceful a landing as any I could have pulled off with the airship. There was a patch of fleshy leaves right in my landing path. It couldn’t be better. Bracing myself on handlebars and footpegs, I followed the ground inch by inch as it rose up to meet me. 

I had no time at all to savour the kiss of tyre to ground. In the instant that my petticoat, now windless, collapsed, those fleshy leaves snapped up around me like a vegetable gin trap. I could not believe my bad luck. Miss Rain has two of those plants! 

And I had landed right in the middle of the other one.

My first instinct was to repeat my previous escape, but I was too mentally exhausted to give it a dirty look. I tried, I strained, but just could not focus. Then, to my amazement, the world returned to my vision as the plant collapsed about me, with a great gurgling noise that sounded most unhealthy, like a blockage clearing from a drain. 

I wasted no time in taking advantage of the opportunity. Hampered by my petticoat entangling my hands with the handlebars, I ripped it off and abandoning it to the plant, leapt off to bump-start the Dreadnought. Without my weight, the back wheel immediately started to rise. I’d taken two clumsy steps rolling the bike forwards on its front wheel before I realised I was about to lose it, and hurled myself across the tank. But I was clear of the plant, which was emitting bronchial coughs as though choking on my petticoat. 

I slumped over the handlebars, gasping. First one thing, then another – I wanted to implode and vanish from the world. But I knew that I could not stay there forever. I took a few deep breaths to restore my equilibrium, knowing that I only had to ride across a couple of districts to be home and in bed. I’d tie the Dreadnought to a post in the stable to stop it floating away, and deal with its cargo in the morning. 

As my head cleared, I remarked how strange it was that the plant had spat me out. The Dreadnought was no more indigestible than the Golden Grisset, which the plant’s companion hadn’t minded at all, and my petticoat was definitely lighter fare. And, whatever the plant’s ghastly pneumonic noises might have suggested, it was clean! The truth dawned instantly, and made me raise a weary chuckle. Those plants must have been in communication with each other, and had passed the warning against me. It had ejected me before I could summon up a Dirty Look – heh. Those things really couldn’t handle shopgirls!

But enough of the plant. Home, bathtub and bed awaited me. But first I had to get there, for which I’d have to dismount to start the bike. I’d never do that with it between my legs, waddling like a penguin. I sat for a moment, trying to calculate how I could put the necessary weight behind a bump start without removing said weight from the saddle and losing the bike. Perhaps Miss Rain would not miss a few rocks to ballast it down? Somewhat awkwardly, I walked the bike over towards a likely-looking outcrop. Luckily, it was only my stance which was ungainly, due to the bike between my legs; thanks to the Cavorite, the Dreadnought weighed next to nothing. 

Yes, re-ballasting the sidecar seemed an excellent idea; the ground was too bumpy for me to get a good run to start the engine. The outcrop I’d seen was in a small localised foggy patch, I braced myself for that horrible clingy damp feeling on my already heated skin. When I reached it, the fog turned out to be thicker than I’d expected, although I could still see the road which was my ultimate goal. I stooped down to the small pile of boulders, and they moved.

I recoiled, and almost fell out of the saddle. Thanks to the fog, I could make no sense of any details, but the outcrop’s glints and shadows seemed to be moving in a pattern that was all too familiar. The fog picked that moment to leave a gap and hammer home what I was already starting to suspect. Miss Rain kept a monster spider!  One that made Harry look like the veriest ant! My heart stopped as I fought to keep my balance, with the off-centre Cavorite trying to tip me up.

Whatever the spider was doing was known only to itself; the fog masked its subtler expressions, but at least I had the sidecar between myself and it. I rammed my offside foot into the ground to restore my equilibrium, hammering the passenger tyre into the grass. Then my skirt, wearying of all the tribulations it had undergone on my behalf, solved the Cavorite side of the equation forever by parting with a great jubilant industrial-sized riiiiiiiiip!   and flumping into the sidecar like a drunk falling into bed. I could only watch as my precious Cavorite soared heavenwards like a cluster of green comets, lost to me forever. 

The sudden motion seemed to startle the spider, which bought me time to leap out of the saddle and run the bike to the road, where I chanced a look behind me. I don’t know if the spider was as unnerved as I was, or if it just couldn’t be bothered to come after me; all I could see was eight beady little eyes turning away in search of something more worthwhile. 

Nevertheless, I wasted no time. I feverishly set choke and ignition advance, yanked on the clutch, and heaved the Dreadnought southwards. Letting the clutch go, the engine gave a throaty roar, and I threw myself onto the saddle and gunned the throttle. I was going home.

But not just yet. The engine coughed and gave a backfire that would have alerted the whole district, and stopped dead. Inert. At first, I sat there, mortified. Then I realised my mistake.

You didn’t turn the petrol on! Silly tart!

I half-fell out of the saddle and after a tweak of valve, repeated the whole damned procedure. This time, the engine caught and stayed Ert, burbling throatily under its rich diet of half-choked mixture. It was already getting quite dark as I swung out onto the railway line, not bothering with the headlamp. I was no doubt rousing the neighbourhood with that hammering exhaust beat, and most of them would recognise it, but I did not want to let them confirm my identity with their own eyes. Under the cover of twilight, I resisted the temptation to tear home at a rate of knots, and let the cold engine warm gently. It also bought me time to think.

I’d lost the cargo that had almost cost me my life more than once. But I had learned a lot about things Never To Do Again. I’d been so amateurish and naïve in trying to acquire my Cavorite; I hadn’t even asked anyone about the stuff. I knew no more about it than what Mr Whybrow had first told me, and at the same time, understood quite definitively why he would have nothing to do with Cavorite, preferring old-fashioned gas. That was what I’d have to do. 

Once the faithful Dreadnought had been put to bed in the stable, the first thing I did was to kick off my shoes. The second was to collapse into my bathtub, fully-clothed. They needed a wash after the evening’s exertions, anyway. 

As I slumped, letting my banked fire massage the autumn chill from my feet, I felt the evening’s misadventures slide away. I was still alive, after all, and from somewhere I dredged up a tinge of pride that my gift of song was still with me. Perhaps I should sing to Jasper? I let out a weary chuckle. Not within half a mile of any building, or Mr Whybrow really would get angry with me.